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GIBSON 


Womenkind 


Pilgrim  Players  Series.    No.  4.  Price  6d.  net. 

WOMENKIND 

A  Play  in  One  Act 


BY 

WILFRID  WILSON    GIBSON 


London : 
DAVID  NUTT,  57-59  Long  Acre 


/ 


WOMENKIND. 


This  -play  zvas  froduced  by  the  Pilgrim  Players  Series 
on  Saturday,  February  24M,  igi2,  and  all  dramatic 
rights  are  reserved  by  the  Author. 


(WOMENKIND 


A  Play  in  One  Act 


BY 


WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON. 


AUTHOR   OF 


1/ 


DAILY  BREAD  (1910). 
FIRES  (1912). 


lLon5on : 
DAVID  NUTT,  57-59  Long  Acre,  W.C. 


fVII<^ 


PERSONS:— 

EZRA  BARRASFORD,  an  old  blind  shepherd. 
ELIZA  BARRASFORD,  his  wife. 
JIM  BARRASFORD,  their  youngest  son. 
PHOEBE  BARRASFORD,  Jim's  bride. 
JUDITH  ELLERSHAW. 


Scene. — The  living-room  at  Krindlesyke,  a  lonely 
cottage  on  the  fells.  Ezra,  blind,  feeble-minded,  and 
decrepit,  sits  in  an  armchair  near  the  open  door.  Eliza 
B  arras  ford  is  busy  near  the  hearth. 


WOMENKIND. 


Eliza  {glancing  at  the  clock)  :  It's  nearly  three. 

They'll  not  be  long  in  being  here. 
Ezra  :  What's  that  ? 
Eliza  :  You're  growing  duller,  every  day. 

I  say  they'll  not  be  long  now. 
Ezra  :  Who'll  not  be  long  ? 
Eliza  :  Jim  and  his  bride,  of  course. 
Ezra  :  His  bride  ? 
Eliza  :  Why,  man  alive,  you  never  mean  to  tell  me 

That  you've  forgotten  Jim's  away  to  wed  ! 

You're  not  so  dull  as  that. 
Ezra  :  We  cannot  all  be  needles. 

I'm  dull,  at  times 

Since  blindness  overtook  me. 

While  yet  I  had  my  eyesight, 

No  chap  was  cuter  in  the  countryside. 

My  wits  just  failed  me,  once. 

The  day  I  married     .     .     . 

And  Jim's  away  to  wed,  is  he  ? 

I  thought  he'd  gone  for  turnips. 

He  might,  at  least,  have  told  his  dad     .     . 

Though,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 

I  do  lemember  hearing  something     .     . 

It's  Judith  Ellershaw  that  he's  to  marry. 

5 


WOMENKIND. 

Eliza  :   No  !  No  !  You're  dull,  indeed  ! 

It's  Phoebe  Martin  Jim's  to  marry. 
Ezra  :  Who's  Phoebe  Martm  .-' 

I  know  naught  of  her. 
Eliza  :  And  I  know  little,  either. 

She's  only  been  here,  once     . 

And  now,  she'll  be  here,  always. 

I'll  find  It  strange,  at  first, 

To  have  another  woman  in  the  house. 

But,  I  must  needs  get  used  to  it. 

Your  mother,  doubtless,   found  it  strange 

To  have  m.e  here,  at  first     .     .     . 

And  it's  been  long  enough  in  coming. 

Perhaps,  that  makes  it  harder. 

But,  since  your  mother  died. 

And  she,  poor  soul,  she  didn't  last  too  long 

After  you  brought  me  home  with  you     .     . 

She  didn't  live  to  see  a  grandchild     .. 

I  wonder,  now,  if  she     .     .     . 

And  yet,  I  spared  her  all  I  could     .     .     . 

Aye  !  that  was  it,  for  certain  ! 

Poor  soul,  she  could  not  bear  to  see 

Another  woman  do  her  work ; 

And  so,"  she  pined  and  wasted. 

If  only  I  had  known ! 

Since  she  was  carried  out, 

There's  scarce  a  woman  crossed  the  threshold. 

No  other  woman's  slept  the  night 

At  Krindleskye  for  forty  years     ... 

Just  forty  years  with  none  but  menfolk  ! 

A  queer  life,  when  you  think  of  it. 

Well,  well,  they've  kept  me  busy,  doing  for  them. 

And  there's  few  left  now. 

Only  you  and  Jim     .     .     . 

And  now,  Jim's  bride     .     .     . 

Another  woman  comes  .     . 

And  I  must  share  with  her. 

I  dare  say  that  we'll  manage  well  enough  : 

She  seemed  a  decent  lass, 

When  she  was  here,  that  once     .     .     . 

Though,  there  was  something  in  her  eyes 

I  couldn't  quite  make  out. 

She  hardly  seemed  Jim's  sort,  somehow. 


WOMENKIND. 

I  wondered  at  the  time     .     .     . 

But,  who  can  ever  tell  why  women  marry? 

Still,  Jim  will  have  his  hands  full, 

Unless  she's  used  to  menfolk. 

I  never  saw  her  like     .     .     . 

She'll  take  her  own  way  through  the  world. 

Or  I  am  sore  mistaken  : 

Though,  she  seemed  fond  enough  of  Jim. 

He's  handsome     .     .     .     yet     .     .     . 

It's  hard  to  say  why  such  a  girl  as  she     .     .     . 
Ezra  :  Tut !  tut !  giils  take  their  chance. 

And  Jim  takes  after  me,  they  say. 

If  he  were  only  half  as  handsome 

As  I  was  at  his  age     .     .     . 

You  know  yourself     ... 

You  did  not  need  much  coaxing. 
Eliza:  Well     .     .     .     doubtless,  she  knows  best     . 

And  you  can  never  tell     .     .     . 
Ezra  :  Where  does  she  hail  from  ? 
Eliza. :   Somewhere  Bentdale  way. 

Jim  met  her  at  the  Fair,  a  year  ago. 
Ezra  :  I  met  you  at  the  Fair. 
Eliza  ;  Aye,  fnirs  have  much  to  answer  for     .     . 

But,  she  was  not  my  sort. 

And  yet,  she'^s  taken  Jim 
Ezra  :  I  thought  'twas  Judith  Ellershaw. 
Eliza:   No!  No!  I'm  glad  that  it's  not  Judith 

Jim  fancied  her,  at  one  time ; 

But  Jim's  had  many  fancies. 

He  never  knew  his  mind. 
Ezra :  Aye,  Jim  is  gay,  is  gay  ! 

And  I  was  gay,  when  I  was  young. 

And  Jim     . 
Eliza:  Aye;    Jim's  his  father's  son. 

"I was  well  that  went  no   further: 

For  Judith  flitted  one  fine  night     .     .     , 

'Twas  whispered  that  her  father'd  turned  her  out. 

He's  never  spoken  of  her  since. 

Or  so  his  neighbours  say     .     .     . 

And  no  one's  heard  a  word  of  her. 

I  never  liked  the  lass     .     .     . 

She'd  big  cow-eyes     . 

There's  little  good  in  that  sort: 


WOMENKIND. 

And  Jini's  well  quit  of  her. 

He'll  never  hear  of  her  again. 

That  sort     .     .     . 
Ezra :   I  liked  the  wench. 
Eliza  :  Aye  !  you're  Jim's  father. 

It's  well  he's  settling  down,  at  last 

He's  wild,  like  all  the  others     .     .     . 

Sometimes  I've  feared  he'd  follow  them     . 

Six  sons,  and  only  one  at  home, 

And  he  the  youngest  of  the  bunch, 

To  do  his  parents  credit ! 

The  others  all     .     . 

But,  now  Jim's  married,  he  may  settle  down 

\i  you'd  not  married  young, 

God  knows  where  you'd  have  been  to-day. 
Ezra  :  God  knows  where  you'd  have  been, 

H  we'd  not  met,  that  Fair  day  ! 

I'd  spent  the  last  Fair  wi^h  another  girl  — 

A  giggling,  red-haired  wench  — 

Ana  we  were  pledged  to  meet  again. 

And  I  was  waiting  for  her,  when  I  saw  you. 

But,  she  was  late     .     .     . 

And  ycu  were  young  and  bonnie 

Aye,  you  were  young  and  pink     .     .     . 

There's  little  pink  about  you  now,  I'm  doubting. 
Eliza  :  Nay  !  forty  years  of  Krindlesyke,  and  all     .     .     . 
Ezra :  If  she'd  turned  up  in  time,  young  Carroty, 

You'd  never  have  clapped  eyes  on  Krindlesyke: 

This  countryside  and  you  would  still  be  strangers. 
Eliza:  If  she'd  turned  up     .     .     . 

She'd  lived  at  Krindlesyke,  instead  of  me. 

This  forty  year  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  .     I  might  . 

But,  what's  to  be,  will  be  : 

And  we  must  take  our  luck. 
Ezra :  I'm  not  so  sure  that  she'd  have  seen  it  either  ; 

Though  she  was  merry,  she'd  big  rabbit-teeth 

That  might  be  ill  to  live  with     .     .     . 

Though  they'd  have  mattered  little^  now 

Since  I  am  blind     .     . 

And  she  was  always  merry     .     .     . 

While  you     .     .     .    but  you  were  young     .     .     . 
Eliza  :  And  foolish  ! 


WOMENKIND. 

Ezra  :  Not  so  foolish     .... 

For  I  was  handsome  then. 
Eliza  :  Aye  :  you  were  handsome,  sure  enough  : 

And  I  believed  my  eyes,  in  those  days, 

And  other  people's  tongues. 

There's  somethmg  in  a  young  girl  seems  to  fight 

Against  her  better  sense, 

And  gives  her  up,  in  spite  of  her. 

Yes,  I  was  young ! 

And  just  as  foolish  then  as  you  were  handsome. 
Ezra  :   Well,  fools,  or  not,  we  had  our  time  of  it : 

And  you  could  laugh  in  those  days     .     .     . 

And  did  not  giggle  like  the  red-haired  wench. 

Your  voice  was  like  a  bird's 

But,  you  laugh  little,  now     .     .     . 

And  Lord  !  your  voice 

Well,  still  it's  like  a  bird's,  maybe. 

For  there  be  birds,  and  birds  — 

There's  curlew,  and  there's  corncrake. 

But  then,  'twas  soft  and  sweet. 

Do  you  remember  how,  nigh  all  day  long. 

We  sat  together  on  the  roundabout  ? 

I  must  have  spent  a  fortune     .     .     . 

Besides  the  sixpence  that  I  dropped     .     .     . 

For  we  rode  round  and  round. 

And  round  and  round  again  : 

And  music  playing  all  the  while. 

We  sat  together  in  a  golden  carriage; 

And  3'ou  were  young  and  bonnic  : 

And  when,  at  night,  'tv^'as  lighted  ui). 

And  all  the  gold,  aglitter. 

And  we  were  rushing  round  and  round. 

The  music  and  the  dazzle     . 
Eliza  :  Aye  !  that  was  it,  the  music  and  the  dazzle     .     . 

The  music  and  the  dazzle,  and  the  rushing     .     . 

Maybe,  'twas  in  a  roundabout 

That  Jim  won  Phoebe  Martin. 
Ezra :  And  you  were  young     .     .     . 
Eliza  :  And  I  was  young. 
Ezra  :  Aye,  you  were  young  and  bonnie  : 

And  then,  when  you  were  dizzy     .     .     . 
Eliza :   Yes,  I  was  dizzy     ... 


WOMENKIND.  , 

Ezra  :  You  snuggled  up  against  me     ... 

I  held  you  in  my  arms     .     .     . 

And  warm  against  me     ... 

And  round  we  went     ... 

With  music  playing     .     .     . 

And  gold,  aglitter     .     .     . 

The  music  and  the  dazzle     ... 
Eliza :    And  there's  been  little  dazzle,   since,   or  music. 
Ezra  :  Aye  :   I  was  gay,  when  I  was  young, 

Gay,  till  I  brought  you  home. 
Eliza  .  You  brought  me  home  ? 

You  brought  me  from  mv  home. 

If  I'd  but  known  before  I  crossed  the  threshold, 

If  I'd  but  known 

But  what's  to  be,  will  be. 

And  now,  another  bride  is  coming  home, 

Is  coming  home  to  Krindlesyke     .     .     . 

God  help  the  lass,  if  she     .     .     . 

But  they  will  soon  be  here. 

Their  train  was  dnv  at  Mallerford  at  three. 

The  walk  should  take  them  scarce  an  hour, 

Though  they  be  bride  and  bridegroom. 
Ezra  :  I  wish  that  Jim  had  married  Judith. 

I  liked  the  lass. 
Eliza :   You  liked     .     .     . 

But,  come,  I'll  shift  your  chair  outside. 

Where  you  can  feel  the  sunshine ; 

And  listen  to  the  curlew ; 

And  be  the  first  to  welcome  Jim  and  Pha-be 
Ezra  :   Wife,  are  the  curlews  calling  ? 
Eliza  :  Aye  :  they've  been  calling  all  day  long, 

As  they  were  calling  on  the  day, 

The  day  I  came  to  Krindlesyke. 
Ezra  :  I've  never  caught  a  note. 

I'm  getting  old, 

And  deaf,  as  well  as  blind. 

I  used  to  like  to  hear  the  curlew, 

At  matin g-time,  when  I  was  young  and  gay. 

And  they  were  whistling  all  about  me 

That  night,  when  I  came  home     . 

The  music  and  the  dazzle  in  my  head. 

And  you  and  all     .     .     . 

And  yet  I  heard  them  whistling 

10 


WOMENKIND. 

But  I  was  young  and  gay  ! 
And  you  were  plump  and  pink 
And  I  could  see  and  hear 
And  now  ! 
Eliza:  And  now,  it's  Jim  and  Phoebe  — - 

The  music  and  the  dazzle  m  their  heads  — 
And  they'll  be  here  in  no  time. 
Ezra  :  I  wish  he'd  married  Judith. 

{Ezra  rises;  and  Eliza  carries  out  his  chair,  and 
he  hobbles  after  her.  She  soon  returns;  and 
begins  to  S7veep  up  the  hearth,  ai.d  then 
■puts  some  cakes  into  the  oven,  to  keep  hot. 
Presently,  a  step  is  heard  on  the  threshold;  and 
Judith  Ellershaiu  stands  in  the  doorway,  a  baby 
in  her  arms.  Eliza  does  not  see  her,  for  a 
moment;  then  looks  up,  and  recognises  her  zviih 
a  start). 
Eliza:  You,  Judith  Ellershaw  ! 

I  rhought  'twas  Jim 
Judith:  You  thougnt  'twas  Jim? 
Eliza  :  Aye;  Jim  and     .      .      .      (breaks  off) 
Where've  you  sprung  from,  Judith  " 
It's  long  since  you've  shown  face  in  these  parts. 
I  thought  we'd  seen  the  last  of  you 
I  little  dreamt     ... 
And,  least  of  all.  to-day! 
Judith  :  To-day  ?    And  should  I  be  more  welcome 

On  any  other  day  ? 
Eliza  :  Welcome  ?    I  hardly  know. 

Your  sort  is  never  overwelcome 
To  decent  folk     .     .     . 
Judith  :  I  know  that  well, 

That's  why  I've  kept  away  so  long 
Eliza  :  You've  kept  away  ? 

But  you  were  littFe  here,  at  any  time. 
I  doubt  if  your  foot  soiled  the  doorstep 
A  dozen  times,  in  all  your  life. 
And  then,  to  come  to-day,  of  all  days  — 
When  Jim     .     .     .       {breaks  off  suddenly) 
Judith  :  When  Jim  ? 
Eliza :  But,  don't  stand  there     .     .     . 

You're  looking  pale  and  tired     .     .     . 

II 


WOMENKIND. 

It's  heavy,  walking  with  a  baby. 
Come  in,  and  rest  a  moment,  if  you're  weary. 
You  cannot  stay  here  long  . 
For  I'm  expectmg     .     .     .     company. 
And  you,  I  think,  will  not  be  over  eager     ... 
Judith  :   I'm  tired  enough,  God  knows  ! 

We'll  not  stay  long,  to  shame  you; 
And  you  can  send  us  packing. 
Before  your  company  arrives. 

(She  comes  in;  and  seats  herself  near  the  door. 
Eliza  busies  herself  in  laying  the  table  for  tea  : 
and  there  is  silence  for  a  while). 
Judith  :  And  so,  Jim's  gone  to  fetch  the  company  ? 
Eliza  :  Aye  :  Jim  has  gone     .     . 

{She  breaks  off  suddenly;  and  says  no  more  for 
a  while.     Presently,  she  goes  to  the  oven;  and 
takes  out  a  piece  of  cake,  and  butters  it,    and 
hands  it  to  J udith). 
Eliza  ■  Perhaps,  you're  hungry,  and  could  take  a  bit. 
Judith  :  Aye  ;  but  I'm  famished     .      .      .     Cake  ! 
We're  grand  to-day,  indeed  ! 
It's  almost  like  a  wedding. 
Eliza  :  A  wedding,  woman  ! 
Cannot  folk  have  cake, 
But  you  must  talk  of  weddings  ? 
And  you  of  all 
Judith  :  I  meant  no  harm. 

I  thought,  perhaps,  that  Jim 

But,  doubtless,  he  was  married  long  ago? 

{Her  baby  begins  to  whimper ;  and  she  tries  to 
hush  it  in  an  absent  manner'). 
Hush  !  hush  !  my  lass. 
You  must  not  cry. 
And  shame  the  ears  of  decent  folk. 
Eliza  :   Why,  that's  no  way  to  soothe  it ! 
Come,  give  the  child  to  me  ; 
I'll  show  you  how  to  handle  babies. 
Judith  :  And  you  would  nurse  my  child  ! 
Eliza  {taking  it  in  her  arms) :  A  babe's  a  babe     .     .     . 
Aye,  even  though  its  mother     ... 

{She  breaks  off  suddenly,    and    stands  gazing 
before  her,  holding  the  baby  against  her  bosoni). 

12 


WOMEN  KIND. 

Judith:  Why  don't  you  finish,  woman? 

You  were  saying     . 

"Aye,  even  though  its  mother     ..." 
Eliza  {slowly,   gazing  before  her  in  a  dazed  jnanner) : 

Nay,  lass;  it's  ill  work,  calling  names. 

Poor  babe,  poor  babe  ! 

It's  strange     .     .     .     but,  as  you  snuggled  to  my 
breast, 

I  thought,  a  moment,  it  was  Jim 

I  held  within  my  arms  again. 

I  must  be  growing  old  and  foolish 

To  have  such  fancies     .      .      .      still 
Jtidith  :  You  thought  that  it  was  Jim, 

This  bastard 
Ehza  :  Shame  upon  you,  woman, 

To  call  your  own  child  such  ! 

Poor  innocent     .      .      .     and  3'et 

0  Jim!  O  Jim! 

Judith  :  Why  do  you  call  on  Jim  ? 

He  hasn't  come  yet  ? 

But  I  must  go,  before     .     .     .     (rising') 

Give  me  the  child. 
Eliza  {facing  her,  and  ivithholding  the  babe) :  Nay  !  not 

until  I  know  the  father's  name. 
Judith  :   The  father's  name  ? 

What  right  have  you  to  ask  ? 
Eliza :  I  hardly  know     .     .     .     and  yet     .     .     . 
Judith  :    Give  me  the  child. 

You'll  never  have  the  name  from  my  lips. 
Eliza  :  O  Jim  !  O  Jim  (giving  back  the  child). 

Go,  daughter,  go,  before     .     .     . 

Oh,  why'd  you  ever  come, 

To-day,  of  all  days  ! 
Judith  :   To-day  ?     Why  not  to-day 

As  well  as  any  other  ? 

Come,  woman,  I'd  know  that  before  I  go. 

I've  iialf-a-mmd  to  stay  till  Jim 
Eliza  :  Nay,  daughter,  nay  ! 

You  said  that  you  would  gr^ ; 

You  know,  you  said     .     .     . 
Judith  (sitting  down  again) :   Perhaps,  I've  changed  my 
mind. 

1  liked  the  cake;  and,  maybe,  if  I  stay, 

13 


WOMENKIND. 

There'll  be  some  more  of  it. 

It   isn't  every  day     .     •     . 
Eliza:  Judith,  you  know  ! 
Judith  :  Nay  ;  I  know  nothing — 

Only  what  you  tell  me. 
Eliza:    Then  I  will  tell  you  everything. 

You'll  never  have  the  heart  to  stay     .     . 

The  heart  to  stay,  and  shame  us. 

When  you  know  all. 
Judith  :  When  I  know  all  ? 
Eliza  •  Lass,  when  you  talked  of  weddings, 

You'd  hit  upon  the  truth  : 

And  Tim  brings  home  his  bride,  to-day. 
Judith  :  And  Jim  brings  home  his  bride     .     .     . 
Eliza :  Aye,  lass ;  you  would  not  stay     .     .     . 
Judith  :  And  Jim  brings  home  his  bride     .     .     . 
Eliza  :   They'll  soon  be  here     .     .     . 

I  looked  for  them,  ere  now. 

But,  you've  still  time     ... 
Judith  :  The  bride  comes  home  : 

And  you  and  I  must  take  the  road. 

My  bonnie  babe,  my  little  lass. 

Lest  she  should  blush  to  see  us  ■ 

We're  not  a  sight  for  decent  folk.  ^ 

My  little  lass,  my  bonnie  babe, 

And  we  must  go     .     .     . 

The  bride  comes  home  to-day     .     . 

We're  no  fit  sight  for  fair  young  brides. 

Nor  yet  for  gallant  bridegrooms. 

If  we  should  meet  them  on  the  road. 

You  must  not  cry  to  him     . 

I  must  not  lift  my  eyes  to  his     . 

We're  naught  to  him,  the  gallant  bridegroom. 

And  she  might  hear  your  cry     .     .     . 

The  bonnie  bride     . 

Her  eyes  might  meet  my  eyes     .     .     . 

Your  cry  might  tell  her  heart  too  much  : 

My  eyes  might  show  her  heart  too  much 

Some  bush  must  hide  our  shame,  till  they  are  by, 

The  bonnie  bride  and  bridegroom, 

If  we  should  meet  them  on  the  road, 

Their  road,  and  ours     .     .     .     the  road's  the  same, 

Though  we  be  travelling  different  ways. 

14 


WOMENKIND. 

The  bride  comes  home,  the  bride  comes  home,  to- 
day    .     . 

And  you  and  I  must  take  the  road. 
Eliza  :  Aye,  lass;  there's  nothing  else  for  it. 
ludith  ■   There's  nothing  else  ? 
Eliza  :  Nay,  lass  !     How  could  you  stay  now  ? 

They'll  soon  be  here     .     . 

But,  you'll  not  meet  them,  if  you  go     .     .     . 
]udith :  Go     .     .     .     where  ? 
Eliza  :  And  how  should  I  know  where  you're  bound  for? 

I  thought  you  might  be  making  home. 
Judith  :  Home     .      .      .     home     .      .      .     and  where' s  my 
home — 

Aye  !  and  my  child's  home,  if  it  be  not  here  ? 
Eliza:  Here,  daughter  !  You'd  not  stay     .     .     . 
Judith :  Why  not     .     .     .     have  I  no  right  ?     .     .     . 
Eliza  :   H  you'll  not  go  for  my  sake, 

Go,  for  Jim's. 

H  you  were  ever  fond  of  him, 

You  would  not  have  him  shamed. 
Judith  :  And,  think  you,  woman,  I'd  be  here. 

If  I  had  not  been  fond 

And  yet  why  should  I  spare  him  ? 

He's  spared  me  little. 
Euiza  :   But,  thmk  oi  her,  his  bride. 

And  her  home-coming  ! 
Judith'.  Aye     .     .     .     I'll  go 

God  help  her,   that  she  never  suffer. 

As  I  have  suffered  for  your  son. 

Jim  !    Jim  ! 
Eliza  :  You  lose  but  little,  daughter. 

I  know,   too  well,  how   little, 

For  I've  lived  forty  years  at  Krindlesyke. 
Judith  :  Maybe,  yovi  never  loved     .     .     . 

i^nd  you  don't  know  the  road 

The  road  I've  come, 

The  road  that  I  must  go     .     .     . 

You've  never  tramped  it     .     .     . 

God  send  it  stretch  not  forty  years  ! 
Eliza  :  I've  come  that  forty  years. 

We're  out  upon  the  same  road,  daughter. 

The  bride,  and  you,  and  I 

And  she  has  still  the  stoniest  bit  to  travel 

15 


WOMR-NKl'ND. 

We've  known  the  worst     ... 

And  you'vf  your  little  lass. 

Thank  God,  it's  not  a  son  .     , 

If  I  had  only  had  one  daughter     .     .     . 
Jjidith  :   You'll  have  a  daughter,  now 

But  I  must  go,  before  she  comes. 

The  bride  comes  home     .     . 

Jim  brings  a  daughter  home  for  you. 

(yAs  she  speaks,  a  step  is  heard;  and  Ezra  Bar- 
rasford  appears  in  the  doorway.  Turning  to  go, 
Judith  meets  him.  She  tries  to  pass  him;  but 
he  clutches  her  arm;  and  she  stands  as  if  dazed, 
while   his  fingers  grope  over  her). 

Ezra  :  So,  Jim's  got  bnck  P 

I  never  heard  you  come,  lad. 

But,  I  am  growing  deaf. 

As  deaf  as  a  stone-wall. 

I  couldn't  hear  the  curlew,  not  a  note 

I  used  to  like  to  hear  them     . 

And  now,  I'll  never  hear  them,  any  more. 

But,  I  forget  .     . 

You're  welcome  home     . 

Is  this  the  bonnie  bride  ? 

You're  welcome  home  to  Krindlesyke.  {feeling  her 

face). 
Why,  wife,  it's  Judith,  after  all  ! 
I  knew  'twas  she  that  was  to  be  Jim's  bride 
You  said  'twas  someone  else     . 
I  can't  remember     .     .     .     some  outlandish  name. 
But,  I  was  right,  you  see. 
Though  I  be  dull,  at  times. 
And  deafer  than  an  adder, 
I'm  not  so  dull  as  some  folks  think. 
There's  others  growing  old,  as  well  as  I     .     .     . 
You're  welcome     .     .     . 

{His  hand,  travelling  down  Judith' s    shoulder y 

touches  the  child). 
Ah,  a  baby  ! 

Jim's  child  !     Jim's  child  !  "   '. 

Come,  let  me  take  it,  daughter. 
I've  never  had  a  grandchild  in  my  arms, 
Though  I've  had  many  sons. 

i6 


WOMENKIND. 

They've  all  been  wild,  but  Jim  : 

And  Jim's  the  last  one  left. 

Come,  I'll  not  let  it  fall :  '^ 

I've  2lwa>s  h-jd  a  way  with  babies. 

With  babies,  and  with  women. 

(He  snatches  the  child  from  Judith,  before  she 
realises  what  he  is  after,  and  hobbles  away  with 
it  to  the  settle  beside  the  fire.  Before  she  can 
move  to  follow  him,  footsteps  are  heard  on  the 
threshold). 

Eliza :   Ah,  God,  they're  at  the  door  ! 

(As  she  speaks,  Jim  Barrasford,  and  P.ha'be,  his 
bride,  enter , talking  and  laughing.  Jjidith  Eller- 
shaw  shrinks  into  the  shadow  behind  the  door, 
•  while  they  come  between  her  and  the  high-backed 
settle  on  which  Ezra,  is  sitting,  with  the  child ^ 
out  of  sight.  Eliza  stands  dazed y  in  the  middle 
of  the  room). 

Jim  :   Well     ...     so  that's  over  ! 

And  we're  home,  at  last ! 

I  hope  the  tea  is  ready. 

I'm  almost  famished,  mother — 

As  hungry  as  a  hawk. 

I've  hardly  had  a  bite,  to-day  : 

And  getting  married's  hungry  work. 

As  Phoebe  knows     .     .     . 

But,  you've  stopped  laughing,  now,  lass     .     .     . 

And  you  look  scared 

There's  nothing  here  to  scare  you. 

Have  you  no  word  of  welcome,  mother, 

That  you  stand  like  a  stock,  and  gaping  — 

And  gaping  like  a  foundered  ewe  ? 

I'll  have  you  give  my  bride  the  greeting 

That's  due  to  her,  my  bride     . 

Poor  lass,  she's  all  atremble 

But,  we'll  soon  see  who's  mistress  ! 
Eliza  {coming  forward) :   You're  welcome,  daughter. 

May  you     .     .     . 
Ezra  {crooning,    unseen,    to  the  baby) :    "  Sing    to    youi 
mammy  ! 

Sing  to  your  daddy  !  " 

17 


WOMENKIND. 

Jim  :  What  ails  the  old  fool  now  ? 

You  must  not  heed  him,  Phoebe. 

He  is  simple ;  there's  no  harm  in  him. 

{Going  towards  the  settle) 

Come,  dad,  and  stir  your  stumps     .     .     . 
Why,  mother,  what  is  this  ! 
Whose  brat     ... 
Ezra  :   Whose  brat !  Whose  brat ! 

And  who  should  know  but  he  ! 

He's  gay     .     .     .     he's  gay ! 

He  asks  whose  brat ! 

Maybe,  you  came  too  soon,  my  little  lass : 

But,  he's  a  funny  daddy. 

To  ask  whose  brat !  (crooning) 

"  Sing  to  your  mammy     .     .     ." 

{Judith    Ellershmv  steps   forward    to    take   the 
child  from  Ezra). 

Jim  :  You  !  Judith  Ellershaw  ! 
Why,  lass     .     .     . 

{He  moves  to  meet  her ;  but  stops  in  confusion. 
No  one  speaks,  as  Judith  takes  the  child,  and 
zvraps  it  in  her  shaivl.       She  is  moving  towards 
the   door,   when  'Phoebe  steps   before   her,    and 
shuts  it :  then  turns  and  faces  Judith). 
Phoebe  :  You  shall  not  go. 
Judith  :  And  who  are  you  to  stay  me  ? 
Phoebe:  I     .     .     .     I'm  Jim's  bride. 
Judith :  And  what  would  Jim's  bride  have  to  say  to  me? 

Come,  let  me  pass. 
Phoebe  :  You  shall  not  go. 
Judith  :  Nay,  woman,  let  me  by  ! 

You  do  not  know  me  for  the  thing  I  am. 

H   you   but   guessed,  you'd   fling   the  door   wide 

open  ; 
And  draw  your  skirts  about  you, 
Lest  any  rag  of  mine  should  smirch  them 
I'm  not  flt  company  for  fair  young  brides. 
I   never  should  have  come  'mid  decent   folk. 
You  little  know     .     .     . 
Phoebe  :  I  heard  your  name  just  now     .     .     . 
And  i  have  heard  that  name  before. 

i8 


WOMENKIND. 

Judith:  You've  heard  my  name  before! 

I  wonder     .     .     .     but  you  heard  no  good  of  it. 

Who  ever  spoke     .     . 
Phoebe  :   I  heard  it  from  the  lips 

That  uttered  it  just  now. 
Judith  :  From  Jim  ! 

Well     .     .     .     Jim  knows  what  I  am. 

I  wonder  that  he  lets  you  talk  with  me. 

Come,  woman,  I  must  go 
Phoebe  :  Not  till  I  know  the  name  of  your  child's  lather. 
Ji'.ddh  :  Nay  !  you've  no  right  to  ask  it. 
Phoebe :   Maybe     .     .     .     and    yet,    you    shall  not  cross 
that  step. 

Until  you  tell     . 
Judith  :   Come,  woman,  don't  be  foolish 
Phoebe :  You  say  that  I've  no  right. 

Pray  God,  you  speak  the  truth. 

Yet,  there  may  be  no  woman  in  the  world 

Who  has  a  bettei  right. 
Judith  :  Why,  lass  :  you'd  surely  never  heed 

An  old  man's  witless  babble  ! 

A  poor,  old  crazy     . 
Phoebe    (still   facing   Judith):    If    I've    no    right,    you    will 
not  have  the  heart 

To  keep  the  name  from  me. 

But  set  my  mind  at  eas?. 
Judith  :  I  will  not  have  the  heart ! 

If  it  will  set  your  mind  at  ease, 

I'll  speak  my  shame     . 

I'll  speak  my  shame  right  out     .     .     . 

I'll  speak  my  shame  right  out,  before  you  all. 
Jim :  But,  lass     .     .     . 
Judith  :  I  would  not  have  a  bride  unhappy. 

Upon  her  wedding-day. 

The  father  of  my  child  was  William  Burn     . 

A  stranger  to  these  parts     .     . 

Now     ...     let  me  pass. 

{She  tries  to  slip  by,  but  Phoebe  does  not  make 
way  for  her). 

Jim  :  Aye,  Phoebe  :  let  her  go  : 

Don't  be  too  hard  on  her  : 

She's  told  you  what  you  asked     .     .     . 

19 


WOMENKIND. 

Though,  why     .     .     .     unless     ... 

Yet,  I  don't  iDlame  the  lass. 

She  should  know  best. 
Phoebe  {to  Judith,  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes)  :  You 

lie ! 
Judith  :   I  lie  ? 

Phoebe :   To-day,  I  wedded  your  child's  father. 
Eliza  :  O  God  ! 

Jim  :   Come,  lass,  I  say     ... 
Judith  :  No  !  woman,  no  ! 

I  spoke  the  truth. 

Have  I  not  shamed  myself  enough,  already, 

That  you  must  call  me  liar  ? 
{to  Eliza). 

Speak  out,  speak  out,  and  tell     .     .     . 

At  least,  you  know  me  well  enough 

To  tell  her  I'm  no  liar. 

Speak  out,  if  you're  not  tongue-tied  : 

And  tell  her  all  you  know     ... 

How  I'm  a  byeword  among  honest  women, 

And  yet,  no  liar     .     .     .     Speak ! 

You'd  tongue  enough  a  while  ago  : 

And  have  you  none  to  answer  your  son's  wife; 

And  save  your  son  from  slander  ? 
Eliza  {hesitatingly) :  I  never  knew  the  lass  to  lie. 

{While  they  haze  been  talking,  Ezra  has  risen 
from   the  settle,     unnoticed,   and   has    hobbled 
round  to  ivhere  Phabe  and  Judith  are  standing. 
He  suddenly  toitches  Phcebe's  arm). 
Ezra  :  Give  me  the  babe  again     .     .     . 

Nay  !  this  is  not  the  lass     .     .     . 

I  want  Jim's  bride,. 

The  mother  of  his  daughter. 

Come,  Judith,  lass,  where  are  you  ? 

I  want  to  nurse  my  grandchild, 

The  little  lass,  Jim's  little  lass. 

{While  he  is  speaking,  Judith  tries  to  slip  past 
Phcebe,  but  Ezra  clutches  hold  of  her :  and 
Phcebe  sets  her  back  against  the  door.  Eliza 
goes  up  to  Ezra;  and  takes  him  by  the  arm;  and 
leads  him,  mutteringly,  back  to  the  settle). 

20 


WOMENKIND. 

Eliza  :   Come,  Ezia,  hold  your  foolish  tongue. 

You  don't  know  what  you're  saying     . 
Jim  :   If  he  don't  hold  his  tongue,  I'll     .     .     . 
Judith  {to  Pkcebe) :   And  will  you  weigh  an  old  man's 
witlessness 

Against  my  word  ? 

O  woman,  pay  no  heed  to  idle  tongues. 

If  you  would  keep  your  happiness  ! 
Phoebe  (looking    her  in    the  face) :    But,  even  while    the 
tongue  is  lying. 

The  eyes  speak  out  the  truth. 
Judith  :  The  eyes  ! 

Then,  you  will  pay  no  heed  to  me; 

But  let  a  dothering  old  man 

Destroy  your  life  with  idle  chatter. 

You  know  my  worth  ! 

Yet,  if  you  care  for  Jim, 

You'll  trust  his  word. 

If  Jim  denies  the  child. 

Then,  you'll  believe     .     .     . 

You  would  not  doubt  your  husband's  word. 

And  on  your  wedding-day 

Small  wonder  you  doubt  mine  : 

You've  got  good  reason     .     . 

But,  Jim's  not  my  sort :  he's  an  honest  lad  : 

And  he'll  speak  true     . 

If  Jim  denies  the  child     .     .     . 
Phoebe  :   If  Jim  can  look  me  in  the  eyes     .     .     . 
Judith  :  Speak,  Jim,  and  set  her  mind  at  ease. 

Don't  spare  me,  Jim;  but  tell  her  all  : 

For  she's  your  wife;  and  has  a  right  to  know 

The  child's  no  child  of  yours. 

{Jim  stands,  hesitating). 

Come,  lad,  speak  out ! 

And  don't  stand  gaping  there. 

You  know,  as  w^ell  as  I,  the  child     .     .     . 

Speak !  speak ! 

Have  you  no  tongue  ? 

{He  still  hesitates). 

Don't  think  of  me     .     .     . 
You've  naught  to  fear  from  me. 

21 


WOMENKIND. 

Tell  all  you  know  of  me  right  out     . 
No  word  of  yours  can  hurt  me     .     . 
I'm  shameless,  now     .     .     . 
You  know,  my  father  turned  me  out    . 

{Jim  still  hesitates). 

Speak  lad  !  Your  wife  is  waiting. 
If  you  don't  tell  the  truth,  and  quickly, 
You'll  have  a  merry  life  of  it,  I'll  warrant ! 
I  would  not  be  in  your  shoes     .     .    . 
See,  how  she's  badgered  me  : 
And  all  because     .     .     . 
Come,  be  a  man  !  and  speak  ! 
Jim  :  The  brat's  no  child  of  mine     . 
Phoebe,  I  swear     . 

{He  stops  in  confttsion,  and  drops  his  eyes. 
After  a  pause,  Phcebe  turns  from  him;  and  lays 
one  hand  on  the  latch,  and  the  other  on  Judith* s 
arm). 

Phcebe  {to  Judith) :   Come,   lass,  it's  time  that  we  were 

getting  home. 
Judith  {starting  back) :    That  we  ? 
Pha'be  :   Unless  you  wish  to  stay  ? 
Judith :   I  stay  ?     .     .     .     You  mean     .     .     . 

0  God,  what  have  I  done  ! 

That  I  had  never  crossed  this  door  ! 
Eliza  {to  Phoebe)  :  You're  never  going,  woman  ! 

You're  his  wife     . 

You  cannot  leave  him     . 
Jim  :  Leave  !  Leave  me  !    She's  mad  ! 

1  never  heard     .     .     .     and  on  my  wedding-day  ! 
But,  I'm  your  husband  : 

And  I  bid  you  bide. 
Phoebe  :  Oh  Jim,  if  you  had  only  told  the  truth     .     .     . 

I  might     .     .     . 

God  knows     .     .     . 

For  I  was  fond     .     . 
Jim  :  Aye  !  now,  you're  talking  sense. 

It's  well  to  let  a  woman  know  who's  master. 

And  what's  the  odds,  la'ss,  even  if  the  brat     .     .     , 
Phoebe  {  to  Judith)  :  Come,  Judith,  are  you  ready  ? 

It's  time  that  we  were  getting  home. 

22 


Judith:  Home?    I've  no  home     .     .     . 

I've  long  been  homeless. 
Pha'bj  :   That  much  he  told  me  of  you  : 

He  spoke  the  truth,  so  far. 

Thank  God,  he  could  not  rob  me  of  my  home ! 

My  mother  will  be  glad  to  have  me  back : 

And  she  will  welcome  you, 

If  only  for  your  baby's  sake. 

She's  just  a  child,  to  children. 

We're  poor ;  and  labour  hard  for  all  we  have. 

There's  but  two  rooms  :  • 

So  we  must  lie  together. 

Unless  you  are  too  proud     .     .     . 

Nay,  lass  :   I  see  you'll  come  with  me  : 

And  we  will  live,  and  work,  and  tt^nd  the  child, 

As  sisters,  we  who  care     .     .     . 

Come,  Judith ! 

(Ske  flings  the  door  wide;  and  goes  out,  without 
looking  back..  Jim  steps    forward  to  ^tny  her, 
but  halts  in  the  doorway,  and  stands  staring 
after  her). 
Jim  :  Nay,  lass  !  I  bid  vou  stay     . 

I  bid     ...     1  bid     ..     . 

The  blasted  wench  !      She's  gone  ! 

(He  stands,  speechless;  but  at  last,  turns  to 
Judith,  who  is  still  gazing  after  Phcvbe  ivitk  an 
un realising  stare) 

Well  .you  will  not  forsake  me,  Juditli? 

Old  friends  aie  best     .     .     . 

And  I     .     .  I  always  liked  you. 

And  so,  this  is  my  baby  ! 

W^ho'd  have  thou i^ht     .     .     . 

{Judith  starts :  clutches  her  baby  to  her  breast, 
and  slips  past  him). 
Judith  {calling) :  I'm  coming,  Phoebe     .     .     . 
Coming  home  with  you 

{Jim  stands  in  the  doonvay,  staring  after  her 
dumbfounded,  till  they  are  both  02U  of  sight : 
when  he  turns;  and  slams  the  door  to). 
Jim  :  I've  done  with  women  ; 

They're  a  faithless  lot. 

23 


WOMENKIND. 

Ezra  :  Aye  :  womenkind  are  all  the  same  : 

I've  ever  found  them  faithless. 

But,  where's  your  baby,  Jim, 

Your  little  lass  ? 
Jim  :  They've  taken  even  her  from  me. 

(Eliza,  who  has  been  filling  the  teapot,   takes 
Ezra  by  the  arm,  and  leads  him.  to  a  seat  at  the 
table'). 
Eliza  :  Come,  husband,  take  your  tea,  before  it's  cold  : 

And  you,  too,  son. 

Aye  :  we're  a  faithless  lot. 


24 


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